John Waits
by leopard high in the mountains
Summary: In which John realizes that there really isn't much he can do. Post-Reichenbach, so there are spoilers. Rated T to be safe. Part one of a three-part series.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Sherlock_. Or any aspect of it. I only own this story. Please don't sue me.

**Author's Note: **Scribbled this up one day during school, in an effort to get some of these Reichenbach feels. It turned into something that was actually coherent once I typed it up, so here it is. Critical criticism is welcome. :)

John could only watch as the world that once revered Sherlock and waited outside his doorstep just to snap a picture of him with his collar up and a funny hat on his head now spat on his name and tore his reputation to shreds. He had warned Sherlock that the press would turn on him, but he had never imagined it could have been like this. They even had the gall to claim that they had driven Sherlock to suicide. That their discovery of his duplicity had pushed him over the edge. Now that was laughable.

_But he jumped._

_ There was no way it could have all been a lie._

_ Then why did he jump?_

The last memory he had of Sherlock, blood running down his pale face and soaking his hair, came to him every night in his dreams. Seeing Sherlock falling through the air had sucked the breath out of him, but it was seeing Sherlock on the sidewalk, broken and bloodied and fragile and _human_ that had cut him to the core. Sherlock had always been otherworldy in a way; power and energy bound into one space, like a thundercloud; above the things that would have brought down lesser people. John and Sherlock had lived through so much together that it had never really occurred to John that Sherlock _could_ die.

And yet so often he found himself sitting in his chair in 221B, Baker Street, staring blankly across at Sherlock's chair, which was coldly empty. He had tried to find a safe place to rest his gaze, some part of the room that didn't remind him of Sherlock, but every square inch of that room held some memory of Sherlock's quirky habits or some memory they had shared. There was Sherlock's skull, perched on the mantelpiece. The window he had looked out of when he played the violin. The couch he sometimes moped on, the holes he shot into the wall, the rack where he used to hang his coat, the table where he conducted his many experiments.

It has been months, but still, once a week, John takes flowers to Sherlock's grave and stands before the tombstone in a few moments of remembrance. He does not talk aloud anymore, though. He has made his one request, and if Sherlock was able to hear it, he would have. No more needed to be said. He barely leaves the flat for anything else. Sometimes he manages to get himself to work, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he remembers to go and get the groceries, sometimes he doesn't. If not for Mrs. Hudson, he would have starved weeks ago. She has been so kind, fussing over him and tidying the flat, but he has noticed the frown between her brows increasing every time she is in his presence. He knows he should be getting out as much as possible, trying to meet new people, getting a girlfriend. But he just can't muster up the energy to care.

Not until he gets a text from Mycroft four months after _that day_:

_It's time to move on._

_M_

It was cold and callous and somewhat rude considering he _had watched his best friend plummet from a building and smash onto the sidewalk _but the military, all-business side of him knew distantly that Mycroft was right. No amount of pining or tearful recollections of moments past would bring Sherlock back any sooner. So John begins to clean his flat himself, get his own meals, buy the groceries when he needs them, go to work on time every day, and he even manages to get himself a girlfriend. Sweet, pretty thing Mary is.

And he hides Sherlock's cigarettes again (in the back of the freezer; it would be double the deterrent if his cigarettes were hidden _and_ frozen) and he places Sherlock's violin and music stand neatly in the corner and he disposes of all of the body parts left in the refrigerator because who knows how long those would keep and he in general gathers all of Sherlock's _stuff_ and puts it somewhere, anywhere, that is not in plain sight. Not a constant reminder of Sherlock's absence, but ready to be spread around the flat again at a moment's notice.

And he ignores the tiny prick of doubt and fear gnawing at his chest, threatening to tear a dark hole in his heart. What would become of him, what would he do, if Sherlock never came back? If Sherlock were -

_He is not dead._

So he waits. For Sherlock to knock at his door or for Mycroft to tell him that Sherlock has been spotted in some distant country or for some sort of clarity. But no longer does he confine himself to the flat and stagnate in his emotions. He does normal things, like going out to the pub and taking Mary to dinner and sometimes just sitting on a bench in the park and listening to the peacefulness around him.

But every night he returns to 221B. Never shall Sherlock come home and find it empty. Because, first and foremost, John's duty is to Sherlock. A part of John expects Sherlock to show up at any moment, anywhere. _Hopes _that he will. Sherlock _must be alive_ because he's _Sherlock_.

John doesn't understand why Sherlock tricked him into leaving when Sherlock would have needed him most. John doesn't understand why Sherlock tried to convince him that everything was a lie and he doesn't understand why Sherlock jumped. He doesn't understand how Sherlock could have survived. But the time is past for mourning and wondering and agonizing. Now, there is only acceptance. There have been many times when John was confused or lost and had no idea what Sherlock was thinking or why he was doing what he was doing. And everything had always turned out alright. Just as he has before, John must endure until Sherlock's return. That is all.

_He can't be dead._

_He can't._

_He's alive._

Although he is certain that Sherlock is alive, somewhere, and that he has good reasons for doing what he did, John doesn't know what to do without him. Like a ship floating on the ocean without a sailor to steer it, John doesn't know if he should try to find Sherlock. And if he did, where to start. Or maybe Sherlock wants to be hidden and wants the world to think he was a fake. Maybe he's planning something big.

So John waits.


End file.
